“Your opinion of me is quite clear,” I said, “so why didn’t you just let that Jeep mow me down?”

“Simple. I would’ve done the same for a dog.” Even as my eyes widened in shock, his stayed cold and dead. “Now go tell your bloodsucking family and your troll of a fiancé how I threw your little olive branch back in your face.”

Pain squeezed my heart. “You really hate me, don’t you?”

He studied me, blinking in that lazy way of his. “To be honest, I don’t feel much of anything where you’re concerned.”

I tore away and stared sightlessly out of the window while the limo inched through traffic. He was right. I was naïve. My biggest mistake was in misjudging the depth of his pain. Despite what he’d said, his feelings for me were anything but neutral.

I’d known Trace since I was six. His mother, having cleaned houses for the best families, came to Cheltenham Manor with high recommendations. Ten-year-old Trace used to tag along and was later hired to do odd jobs around the estate.

After he got his license, he was hired as a chauffeur. By then, he and I had forged a bond, one I thought couldn’t be broken. Now his parents were dead, and his brother was in a padded room. If he were innocent, of course he’d feel robbed. If he were guilty, would his bitterness be any less potent? Either way, in his mind, I’d betrayed him. Dare I push him further?

Yes. I had no other choice.

Reaching inside my blouse, I held up a sterling silver chain with a charm. “See this?” It dangled between my fingers. “I found it in an old trunk. I still don’t remember much about the day you gave it to me, only that you said your great-grandfather sent it to you for Christmas. You called him Bisabuelo.”

An emotion I couldn’t identify flashed in his eyes.

“Do you remember the inscription?” I asked. His Adam’s apple bobbed as I flipped the charm over and recited, “‘Una vida vivida con miedo es una vida media duración.’” I dropped the locket back between my breasts. “I’d forgotten the reason you wanted me to have it…until now.”

“Shannon….”

“Listen to me, okay? I used to draw in my diary, but it went missing right before Auntie and Uncle moved me to Briar.” I lowered my eyes, fingered the chain hanging from my neck. “Two months ago, I found this locket with a few torn diary pages. Around the same time, a memory came back. And it…it was something so awful that I began questioning everything I thought I knew.” I looked at him dead on. “But one thing was clear. I lied to you about Mother that day at Miller’s Pond.”

Child abuse.

Until I’d found the diary pages, what few memories I had of Lilith Bradford were surreal. I’d honestly believed my mother never laid a hand on me. Now the only question was why. How could I have forgotten the hell I’d endured? And not just parts. I’d forgotten it all.

Murder in the second degree. Thirteen years—a minimum of ten served. The sentence was a miracle, considering the evidence. Andrew Gartner, Trace’s Harvard-educated attorney, came forward a week after the murder hit the airwaves. Offering his services, pro bono, he was one of the best criminal defense lawyers on the East Coast, but he’d met his match in Darien.

Trace maintained his innocence throughout the trial. As for suspects, his lawyer pointed to the half dozen or so lovers Mother was rumored to have had. The defense argued that the last time Trace saw her alive was when he’d confronted her about my bruises, an incident witnessed by several servants.

The prosecution claimed the abuse was a figment of Trace’s imagination and that the violence he’d suffered at the hands of his own father—Gary Dawson—had caused him to lose touch with reality.

My deposition didn’t contradict this. I was convinced Mother never hit me, but finding the diary pages changed all that. Little had I known what other things those pages would stir up.

“I’m sorry, Trace. I don’t know why I denied the abuse, but at the time, I actually believed what I was saying.”

His face lacked expression, but he seemed to take pity on me when his eyes softened. “I never held that against you.” He looked out of his window. “You couldn’t even admit it to me or yourself, much less to strangers.”

I shrank back. His words had left me temporarily speechless. “Oh, my God. That’s why Gartner didn’t cross-examine me. You wouldn’t let him.”

He fixed his eyes on mine again, saying nothing. Even with his freedom on the line, he’d protected me. The realization had my mind reeling. If he didn’t blame me for testifying, then where was all this hatred coming from?

I shook my head again, even more confused. “Do your promises have expiration dates?”

“What?”

“You once said you could never hate me. And that you’d be there if I needed you. Well, I need you now more than ever.”

He looked away.

“The Miller’s Pond diary entry was the last one I ever wrote. Mother came in my room drunk that night, just as I was finishing. She snatched it from me, read a few paragraphs and started ripping pages out. That’s the last time I saw it. Then after you had that fight by the pool the next night, she made me give her the necklace. She didn’t want me to keep anything of yours. But my diary—the pages…everything disappeared after the murder.”

“And this has what to do with me?”

“That’s what I want to find out.” Emotion welled in my throat. “Something caused me to forget the abuse. Doesn’t that sound strange to you?”

He shrugged. “Kids repress stuff like that all the time.”

From his far-away expression, I could tell he was speaking from experience. “Who else knew what Mother was doing? The servants witnessed the pool fight, right? You said it was the last time you saw her alive—”

He flashed a palm. “Hold up. I don’t like where this conversation is going.”

“Please hear me out. You reported Mother to Sheriff Gray. That’s one of the reasons I want to talk to him. I remember him grilling me before I gave my deposition.” I bowed my head and shook it. “He’s retired now and lives in Roanoke. I call every day, leave messages, but he ignores them.”

He started to speak, but must have thought better of it.

“I found Valene Campbell too. Our old cook.” I raised my eyes. “She was your mother’s best friend, right?”

He just looked at me.

“Oh, come on! You can help. I’ve left countless phone messages. I’ve even written a few letters, but her granddaughter Jane intercepts everything. She said Mrs. Campbell was too infirm and senile to speak with me.”

He gestured. “Well, there you go.”

“She’s lying.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m telling you, the old woman knew everything that went on at Cheltenham Manor.”

“So talk to your family,” he said.

“They don’t believe Mother abused me. They say the diary pages are stories I used to make up. That I was a precocious girl with a vivid imagination.”

“What about Montgomery?”

I gestured helplessly. “He says even if she hit me—”

“That I’m still a murdering bastard, right?” He rolled his eyes, his face a mask of hostility. “I can’t help you.”

Debating his guilt or innocence was the last thing I wanted to do—too many minefields there. “Reading through the transcripts was like falling down a rabbit hole. It was information overload. That’s why I thought if I talked with you, or maybe if we went back to Cheltenham Manor—”

“Oh, hell no.”

“It’s been empty for twelve years. I haven’t set foot—”

“Shannon, do you hear yourself? I just got out of the joint today. What makes you think I wanna deal with this shit now?”

I leaned closer. “Are you saying your answer would have been different had I waited a week…a month…a year?”

He rolled his eyes again.

“Please.” I grabbed fistfuls of the coat in my lap. “I’m desperate, okay? I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”